Fever Mist Read Online Free Page B

itself hummed with mystical power.
    This must be Igdrasil, the world tree of the Dumnos wyrd.
    Beyond the cliffs and Tintagos Bay was the Severn Sea, and on the horizon a mist churned and undulated, racing toward land like an ocean god’s team of water horses. The Dumnos mist, spoken of in the Blue Vale, was darker than he’d expected, quite out of keeping with what he’d heard. The mist did not appear benign.
    He turned to the sounds of shouting men and clanging swords and saw fields covered with tents and hundreds of warriors. Nearby a laughing crowd surrounded and cheered on two knights engaged in a demonstration of swordplay.
    To the north a castle at cliff’s edge flew the pennant of its occupant from the highest tower, indicating the lord was at home. The stronghold wasn’t under siege, judging by the festive camaraderie among the encamped knights, but its drawbridge was closed—a shocking withholding of hospitality on the part of the resident lord. Had human men no manners?
    “Come, Sir Goblin.” Merlyn indicated a carpet spread on the ground and a pile of soft-looking cushions. “Take some refreshment, and watch.”
    “Watch?” Max sniffed at the bestowed title.
    “See there.” Merlyn nodded. The castle drawbridge began to lower. “That’s Tintagos. Its walls are inviolate, warded by magic impenetrable by men or the magic of wyrd or fae. From this position of strength, Duke Gorlas imagines he’ll soon rule over all these men as king of Dumnos. Ah. His lady, Igraine, rides out now to meet him.”
    A procession of ladies on horseback rode through the gate, but Max’s attention went to the castle itself, his curiosity aroused, his competence challenged.
    Impenetrable by men or magic.
    “Just so,” Merlyn said, again with the irritating implication he’d read Max’s thoughts. “The northwest wall is built sheer to the cliffs. Tunnels run from the keep down to Tintagos Bay, allowing for constant restocking of supplies during a siege.”
    As the ladies progressed from the castle, each group of knights and squires they passed stopped all conversations and play to bow or nod.
    “Have some wine, Maxim,” Merlyn said.
    Max accepted a goblet and joined the wyrder on the carpet, but the view had been better standing.
    Merlyn withdrew a leather pouch from an interior pocket in his cloak and untied its strings. “Move back a little there, Maxim. And do not utter a sound until I give you leave.” He pulled a handful of dust from the pouch and tossed it into the air. “Utros! Utros! Utros!”
    The air between wyrder and goblin shimmered and distorted, giving the appearance of a distant mirage on a hot summer’s day. An apparition slowly took form and came into focus, two men in the midst of an intense exchange. The dark-haired man turned, and the blond man followed his gaze to a beautiful lady dismounting a horse, one of those who’d come from the castle.
    Max looked back to the camp. There the original scene unfolded in time with this close-up view.
    “Gorlas.” The woman in the apparition bowed to the dark-haired man. “As you commanded, my lord, I’ve brought meat for your meal and wine for your company.” She kept her eyes cast down, and her voice trembled, only slightly, with passion—not love, Max thought, but passionate hate.
    The dark mist had reached land, had hit the cliffs and crawled up and over, onto the fields. It entered the apparition like a character, as if it too had a part to play in the pantomime.
    “You may serve me, Igraine,” Gorlas said. “And my guest, Lord Utros, as well.”
    Utros. The name in Merlyn’s conjuration.
    Max examined the blond man with new interest but found nothing remarkable in his countenance. He was about thirty, healthy enough, strong and decent-looking, and with a confident swagger.
    Lady Igraine poured out the wine. The mist wafted about the hem of her skirt, though no one in the picture took notice. “My lord.” She spoke almost under her breath